


Sweet Vagabonds

by shittyninja



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackwatch Era, Blood and Gore, Heavy Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittyninja/pseuds/shittyninja
Summary: The chronicles of two men who had to die to live, and had to live to love.





	Sweet Vagabonds

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i'd been sitting on the idea of a blackwatch genji fic for a while with all the plot scratched out in a google drive when the blackwatch comic came out, and it was like i was being called to start it, so here we are.  
> several notes:  
> 1) sweet vagabonds is canon divergent, which means at some point things will split off from the canon plot. the first few chapters will definitely be more of an interpretation of genji's time with Overwatch, but as we progress, i'm going to do my own thing.  
> 2) i want to write the trauma, so i'm going to write the trauma.  
> 3) the fic is a mcgenji fic, and there will be mcgenji as the story unfolds.

They dumped his body in the woods not far from the estate. Three of them, whom Genji knew to be Shinoda, Hasegawa, and Kuramoto, hefted his limp and shredded form from the trunk of the Nissan Gloria, walked some several-hundred feet into the forest and unceremoniously threw him onto the loose dirt.

The force of the impact forced precious air from his lungs, and he could feel the exposed parts of his ribcage scrape along some small stones. The pain made him gag and choke as his throat filled with blood, which he coughed up weakly. When he settled again, they all stood around him, like they were waiting for something. One of them, possibly Hasegawa, asked in a hushed tone whether or not they ought to say a prayer. The other two laughed at him thuggishly and said it was unnecessary; the Dragons would undoubtedly reward them for helping rid the clan of its biggest eyesore.

Was that the garbage nonsense which the elders had bribed them with? Pathetic.

Had he not been wholly incapacitated via near-disembowelment, Genji would have quipped. After all, he knew a very proficient plastic surgeon, and even under the cowl of night, he could see that the clan’s second, third, and fourth biggest eyesores could surely be remedied with a good face lift. Instead, he found himself hoping that he’d bled out enough onto their disgustingly overpriced jackets to drive the dry cleaning bills through the roof.

Needless to say, he was unable to speak through the pain, and they spared him no second glance and tromped away through the woods.

The chill didn’t set in until some time after the distant glow of the headlights swung away. A night breeze whistled through the gaping holes in his flesh. He silently begged his dragon to cease stabilizing his injuries with its life force - it had healed his punctured lung and closed up the major wounds that would have bled him out in minutes, but it was ultimately only drawing out both of their pain. The little spirit burning within him ignored him, stubborn til the end like its master.

Genji stared foggily up through the overhang of branches, trying to find a constellation or two even though he knew jack shit about astrology. While he didn’t find any, he did see a distant light streak across the small canvas of sky, and that was enough to satisfy him. He closed his eyes and humored the idea of a shooting star intervening on his untimely but not unexpected death.

How long would it be before the wolves found him?

* * *

 

He started back into consciousness, though he didn’t seem to have been under for more than a few minutes. The waking jerk of his body moved his spine just so, and set his nerves on fire. His agonized scream pierced the night. The pain brought him some clarity, and he managed to settle his trembling form back to the ground, which was now warmed and softened by his blood.

When his head finally stopped reeling, Genji tried to steel himself. His nerves felt like stripped wires, exposed and sparking. Everything ached, but moving reminded him just how much of his body was grotesquely out of place now.

Damn the Clan Elders. Damn all of them and their stiff ties, their beady gazes, their dirty nails, their whispers like chloroform, their tongues of cyanide, and their pride-darkened hearts. Damn them for everything they had ever done to him, and to his brother-! Hot tears stung the gashes which tore up his face.

Damn Hanzo too. Damn him for taking up the mantle of duty to hide his cowardice. Damn him for allowing those dusty old bastards to spin the advent of their father’s death into a sick call for action. Damn him for striking out when Genji refused clan affairs as he always did and turned away, not expecting his _Most Honorable Aniki_ to slash him from behind (and with the full force of his twin dragons, no less. Though Genji had turned to fight back, the preliminary injuries had ultimately been too great). Damn him and his final whisper of “ _You fool_ ,” before he turned and left Genji to stain the tatami with gore until some lowlife underlings lumbered in to collect and dump him out here.

Genji wept bitterly.

* * *

 

When he next stirred, he could tell he was close to death because he could no longer feel what was left of his limbs. His hair was stuck to his forehead with clammy sweat and long-dried blood. The spiritual glow of his dragon had faded to a dim flicker, as it had expended so much energy to keeping him at the brink of death for hours now. As it lapped at his tugging soul tiredly, something akin to nausea reared up in the back of his throat, threatening to rack his body with dry heaves if he so much as inhaled too hard.

Over the soft, stuttering wheezes of his own breath, Genji heard the quiet crunch of feet passing over pine needles. He acknowledged the pitiful pulse of adrenaline that lit through his failing system by closing his eyes.

If he’d had been hoping for wolves, he was disappointed, because instead he got sweeping flashlights and several alarmed human voices shouting in some alien language. - _Helicopter!_ Shouted one as they drew nearer. _-Ziegler!_ Yelled another, and then a few more, like it was the one word they seemed to agree on. Through the haze, he decided it could have been English. He studied that once to satisfy the clan, and if he hadn’t been at death’s door, he probably could have translated it, because his English had actually been remarkably good.

The sound swarmed around him, a buzz of nervous energy as they gingerly lifted him up and then placed him back down, and then lifted him up again, but this time on a stretcher which they used to carry him.

He almost wanted to tell them to leave him, that he was dying and there wasn’t much that could be done at this point, but he couldn’t move. As it was, he barely had enough energy to weakly open his eyes a sliver and watch as they broke through the tree cover into an open field, where more people were gathered near a hulking metal form with a massive spotlight attached to the bottom.

Ah. Helicopter.

_Ziegler!_

Genji wondered if the helicopter had been the source of the moving light he’d seen earlier as someone jammed a needle into his neck. He was aware of his eyes rolling back into his head this time, at least.

* * *

 

As he passed through the darkness, he heard the hum of technology and whir of metal. His left shoulder was burning.

 _Hold on_ , a pretty voice whispered, so he did.

* * *

 

The afterlife echoed with the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

* * *

 

Genji was dragged from the hands of death and into a standard-issue hospital room. He awoke to the smell of antiseptic and the sight of a ceiling fan waving gently at him. Shifting his head slowly to the left, he saw a small bedside table, complete with complimentary hospital vase and flower. To his right, were several monstrous-looking machines which were hooked up to him by a horrifying number of wires and tubes. They blipped.

Experimentally, he reached out for the railings at each side of the bed to hoist himself into an upright position.

Several things happened in this moment: first, only one of his hands, the left one, landed on metal. The other landed nowhere at all, and upon attempting to push upwards, Genji realized that his other arm was heavily bandaged. Unthinking, he undid the gauze, only to discover that his right hand was incapacitated due to several enormous chunks of flesh hewn from his right shoulder and along his arm. The bone was exposed in odd places, chalky in the clinical fluorescent light.

The second thing which happened in this moment was a simultaneous rush of vertigo and excruciating white-hot sear that shot from the middle of his chest down. He pitched to the right, causing the wires embedded into his body to pull taut, and vomited violently off the side of the bed.

Third, as the sick sound of hot bile and blood splattering out across the clean linoleum, he startled the nurse, who, at that very second, had opened the door and come in.

Commendably, the man in scrubs only yelped a little bit and dropped his clipboard before rushing to Genji’s side. There was a resound slapping sound as the nurse slammed his palm to the emergency call button just above the vase. Genji continued to heave as the health monitors and other machinations began to beep in rapid distress. Several more medics in long, white coats came rushing in, adding to the chaos.

Genji took another needle to the neck, but this time, he didn’t pass out. Instead, he jerked and all his muscles involuntarily tensed before he fell loosely into the arms of the nurse. Gently, he was laid back down against the pillows as the drugs softened his vision.

The whole room seemed to let out a simultaneous breath of relief, and after a short pause began moving about carefully. Two flitted out of his peripheral to check on the machines while a third hovered at the edges of his vision to speak with the nurse.

This doctor seemed a bit young for her profession, much younger than her two colleagues at least and with a sweetness to her face that made Genji believe she might be about his age. That couldn’t possibly be right though. Genji was just barely 20. Tiredly, he inspected her.

She had blue eyes, neat little lips, and a heart-shaped face framed gently by a trimmed bob of pale blonde hair. And though her expression was pulled tight with worry, perhaps a year ago, a month ago, a day ago even, when he was not on the verge of death, he would have called her pretty.

“It’s all right, Sergei. You did the right thing,” the young doctor said in English with a foreign, lilting accent. He recognized her voice. _Hold on_. Gently, she laid a hand on the nurse’s shoulder.

The nurse, Sergei, nodded. “Thank you, Doctor Ziegler.” - _Ziegler!_ “I apologize for panicking; I thought his body was rejecting the injections you gave him earlier.”

“Better you called us over something minor than you didn’t and he died, no? Anyways, if you could fetch the sterilizing powder, I would like to get the sick cleaned up before the smell spreads too far. ” Sergei hustled out quickly, and then she turned to Genji. Now that she was facing him, he could see how haggard she looked. Hours of lost sleep weighed down the darkened bags beneath her eyes, and her hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in several days. “Now, Mr. Shimada, as you are still with us, how are you feeling?”

She, Ziegler, or Doctor Ziegler, as it were, smiled at him so amicably that he ruled against biting sarcasm. “Terrible,” he croaked in English. And that was true, of course. He was starting to feel clammy again, but not quite in the verge-of-death way as it was the horribly feverish way.

This appeared to be the right answer, as the doctor let out a humored huff. “Well, my fellows and I will do our best to help you out, er… once we get clearance.” There was a hesitant note of guilt in her voice, but she continued. “For now, try to get some rest. You’ll be safe and taken care of here.”

“Where… is here, exactly?” he asked. His eyes swept over the room. The space was small, and made smaller by his bed, the four people, and the hulking forms of life-saving pieces of equipment. Sergei came back with a covered bucket, and began shoveling some sort of powder onto the floor. The other two doctors were hunkered to his left, twisting knobs, furiously jotting down notes, and pulling open hatches to swap out several cylinders of colored chemicals. As the metal hatches closed again, there was a gently burbling noise and a whir.

There were no windows, and only one door. The air was also suspiciously stale, suggesting to Genji’s ninja-trained sensibilities that they might be underground.

“The specialized research and emergency care medical bay of the Overwatch main base. I’m sure the Strike Commander can explain further after you’ve rested up some.”

* * *

 

Rest was not restful in the least. Every time exhaustion overtook him, he heard the rushing scream of dragons, felt the claws raking his torso, reviewed the sensation of organs falling out of place, smelled the blood and dirt of the forest floor, and he woke up with a sharp shout. In more than one instance, he attempted to lash out at the ghost of his attackers. The first time, he discovered that not only could he not move his right arm, but his entire body below the waist thanks to many destroyed bones and similar flesh wounds on his legs. The second time, he rediscovered it, and flew into a rage, grasping the neck of the vase and hurling it across the room. This caused his nurse to come skidding in from across the hall to check on him.

He felt brittle and angry, robbed of fragments of his sanity along with his range of movement. It took an hour and some adjusted knobs on the machine to put him under again.

The third time, he awoke to find Sergei already sitting beside him, open book in hand. “You were making noises in your sleep and I got worried,” he said apologetically. “Do you mind?”

Genji shook his head, and Sergei went back to reading. A concerned presence in the room helped him relax somewhat, despite the crawling feeling on the surface of his skin, and he eventually managed to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The next time he came to, it was to the sound of heated discussion outside of his door. Sergei was gone, though his book and chair were left in place.

“ _-an unfair decision, sir,_ ” Doctor Ziegler said, sounding frustrated. “ _And one which does not offer him any real alternative choices._ ”

“ _I understand that, Angela, but regulation is as regulation does, and we can’t put forward the necessary R &D funds unless he’s part of our organization _” rumbled a man, his voice a sympathetic tenor laced heavily with an American accent.

“ _This is ridiculous! When you briefed me for this, you told me that I would be saving his life. Have you seen his injuries? He requires immediate medical care-_ ”

“ _And he can have it, but if you want to recuperate him to your fullest potential, he will have to work with us._ ”

“ _Strike Commander-!”_

She was cut off, and Genji imagined that the man she was talking to held up her hand to signal her to silence. “ _That’s the final word on the matter, Doctor. We spent too long monitoring the Shimada Clan to waste this opportunity. We can offer your services further if he agrees to our terms_.”

With that, the door swung open, revealing a man who was tall, proud, and visibly strong. The Strike Commander had the body of someone in their prime; he had a young face, despite stress greying some of his short-cropped blonde hair, and was broad, far broader than regular men. His shoulders almost filled the small door frame. Quite frankly, Genji wouldn’t be shocked if this man could tear the door off its hinges.

The man strode in, the strong rhythm of his heavy boots only faltering when he realized that Genji was fully awake already. Doctor Ziegler trailed behind him with a clipboard and a soured expression.

Humble enough to look apologetic, the Strike Commander let out a rueful sigh. “Did we wake you, son?”

“Yes, though I certainly learned a lot from overhearing your conversation.” His voice was rough from sleep, and his throat parched from dehydration.

“Well then you know roughly what you’re in for then. Good. That’ll save us some time.” The doctor made a miffed noise, which went mostly unacknowledged. “I’m sure you’re aware by now that you’re in one of the most developed medical facilities in the world at this very moment, and equally aware of the extent of your injuries.”

Genji felt his face darken as he instinctively tried (and failed) to flex his toes. Briefly, he was gripped by a hatred for everything and everyone involved in this scenario, including the people standing in front of him. Fighting to keep the bristle out of his voice, Genji took a deep breath in and then released it. “How long were you spying on the clan?”

The man seemed mildly taken aback by the question. “Several months now. Their illegal weapons ring has been putting undue pressure on Overwatch where it doesn't need to be, but until now, breaking through with a solution has been difficult to say the least due to the massive underground network that we would be uprooting in the process.”

“And I am your solution,” Genji stated rather than asked. Doctor Ziegler shuffled her papers guiltily.

“We know who you are, Genji. Overwatch has been keeping tabs on you and your situation with the main Clan branch heads for a while know. We know what you’re capable of, and we want to know what you know.”

 _They’d known -_ “About what, and why?” he said coolly.

“As I said, the Shimada Clan is a powerful beast with a long reach.” The man seemed to sidestep his real question like a professional, and Genji hated it. “They’re bad people, and we know they’ve got their fingers in many illegal pies, like-”

“I _know_.” Hearing the name of his clan - rather, what was his clan - turned his veins to ice. He spat his words with such venom that the room fell silent again.

Doctor Ziegler tried then: “We want to help you-”

Genji felt something inside him (something which had been plagued by dark dreams and betrayal, strained by the dull ache of his remaining form which he knew was muffled by a constant influx of sedatives, born down on his inability to fucking move) snap. “Help me _how_!” he howled. The scalded tone of his voice made them both flinch visibly, but Genji continued. Doctor Ziegler's face was drawn with lines of remorse and pained empathy. Later, perhaps, he would apologize. “I am very nearly dead, kept alive only by these hunks of metal, and these tubes of chemicals!” He wildly gestured with his only moveable limb, grabbed for his unnatural lifelines. “I cannot move most of my body! I cannot even sit up! I’m... I’m-!” Losing track of his ability to turn his words into English, he began hurling vile curses in Japanese.

This went on for several minutes, until Genji turned up empty in both languages. He smashed his working fist down on the railing, but the sob which racked him was not from the pain that shot up his body. The two people standing at the side of his bed and watched him. His tears were hot, frustrated and shameful.

“Doctor Ziegler is a restorative science researcher and gifted biomedical engineer,” the Strike Commander said softly. “We can give you your body back.”

Hiccuping bitterly, Genji couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore. Get his body back, and for what, he wanted to ask. How much of him was truly salvageable, and what could living possibly offer to him other than a second chance at dying? “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“Your assistance in the dismantling of the Shimada Clan as a member of Overwatch.”

He closed his eyes and dust settle around the words. In his mind’s eye, Genji saw Shinoda, Hasegawa, and Kuramoto getting into their beds, largely undisturbed by the events of that night. He saw the clan elders gathered around a low table with hot sake to celebrate his "sudden and mysterious disappearance". He could not see his brother, but he heard the retreat of sandals across woven bamboo floor mats as he bled out.

Once, he would have refused, believing he owed them for his quality of life.

Now, the only thing that Genji owed was his pain in equal measure. He would make Hanzo wish he had slit his throat in dishonorable but effective fashion.

“Fix me,” he said, hoarse. “Fix me, and if I do not die from it, I will be the hidden blade of your damned organization until the Shimada Clan is destroyed.”


End file.
